


you get me so high (all the time, i wanna be)

by hongjoongies



Series: codependency is one hell of a drug (kodie's playlist) [1]
Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Poly, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Character Death, Choi San is Broken, Cocaine, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Use, Dubious Morality, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Extremely Dubious Consent, Gaslighting, Heavy Angst, Heavy drugs, Heroin, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Inspired by Euphoria (TV 2019), Jung Wooyoung is Broken, Lovers to Sorta Enemies, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Morally Ambiguous Character, Needles, Physical Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, San is Rue, Substance Abuse, Underage Drug Use, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unrequited Love, Violence, Wooyoung is Fezco, based on Tropico by Lana Del Rey, use of heroin and cocaine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26780263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hongjoongies/pseuds/hongjoongies
Summary: used to stick together, you're my best friend, i'll love you forever.-or the one in which choi san and jung wooyoung don’t know how old they were when they met, but know the exact date they died. July 10th, 2017 at 3:47 am.alternatively, san and wooyoung are best friends until they get a taste of the very thing they swore off. san never believed in god anyway.
Relationships: Choi San/Everyone, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung
Series: codependency is one hell of a drug (kodie's playlist) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1961530
Comments: 48
Kudos: 57





	1. drugs and money (heroin)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [switchtaeguk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/switchtaeguk/gifts), [cosywoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosywoo/gifts).



> soooo.... if you’re going to read this, PLEASE PLEASE heed the heavy warnings. this is NOT a fic for the faint of heart, and even i had a hard time writing this first chapter. if you are squeamish about drugs, alcohol, abuse, etc. then this is not for you to read (which is completely understandable! don’t feel the need to read if you can’t take those things easily.) this is not going to be a happy fic. there will be some happier moments, but in context, it’s not really “happy.” i guess you could say that i watched the scene of euphoria where rue breaks down on fezcos doorstep, and then i saw an edit of san with the Mount Everest song by labrinth in the background, and i just thought ,,, hmm... high san.... talking about how a mountain doesn’t have shit on him ... a mountain... because he’s high... he’s on top of the world... and then i spoke to another writer friend of mine and we created the most screwed up plot we could think of. this is just REALLY dark so please be careful. also, Fuck Jung Wooyoung.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> san is in love, and wooyoung is lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for mentions of hard drugs (specifically heroin and cocaine), use of hard drugs, needles, straws, improper bdsm etiquette, gaslighting, lots of angst, semi-explicit sexual content, tattooing/branding names, extremely dubious consent, humiliation, name calling, physical abuse, emotional abuse, strip clubs, mentions of rape/non-con (not any of the members), and the like. please be extremely careful.
> 
> extra: you may have noticed i made a few changes to the layout of this fic and that is because i feel much better doing one shots and minifics based off of this idea, rather than a full blown story. the one shots will be connected to this story, but will also have some of their own creative parts that wouldn't necessarily fit into the plotline of this story, so it will make sense without reading this, but if you read this you will know more about the dynamic later on. sorry this is jumbled and messy but yeah, that's really all i wanted to mention, once again thank you so much for reading and i'm so sorry about the inconvenience! if you like, please follow me on twt @/HIMBOJOONG i love seeing new people !!

choi san was born on july 10th, 1999 at 3:40 am. he was born a predominantly healthy baby boy: ten fingers, ten toes, and a functioning brain.

at the age of five, he started kindergarten and flourished in the energy of the young children. san had been an exceptional student even at his young age, always handing in his color-by-numbers in on time and even writing little notes to the teachers about how purple was his “most favoritest color so he used it a lot.”

by the time san was eight, he was a favorite among both teachers and students. always sweet, kind, and respectful; he knew how to protect himself from years of martial arts training, but was also taught that violence was never the answer, so he simply didn’t use it.

at ten years old, choi san was full of life and couldn’t wait for what it would bring him.

—

jung wooyoung was born on november 26th, 1999 at 7:20 am, premature and breech. his dying mothers bloody umbilical cord had wrapped around his neck for long enough that his face turned blue and he had to be resuscitated. he was brought back to life. his mother on the other hand, died two days later of obstetrical bleeding caused by a placental eruption.

wooyoung was raised by his grandparents growing up, not exactly the greatest option, but at least he had a biological guardian one way or another. they were often very distant from him, and wooyoung understands. _really_ , he does. he killed his own mother, their  _ only _ daughter, just by existing. she was only twenty two. he understands, but it still hurts.

at the age of five, wooyoung isdevelopmentally behind in almost every way. he couldn’t read and write like everyone else, his sentences were choppy and incomplete, and nobody wanted to be his friend because even though he _talked_ _so much_ ,  none of it ever made perfect sense. so he gave up on making friends, and tried to get his homework in as often as he could.

by the time wooyoung was eight, he was known as the problem student. bratty, an attitude, unpredictable, disrespectful to peers and students,  you name it, he’s gotten called it.  wooyoung talks better now, talks heavy and confident, but he can’t protect himself and doesn’t have the confidence he lets on. so he comes home most days with bruises that his ailing grandparents can’t fix.

at the age of ten, wooyoung is already tired of the very thing he was thrown on this earth to do. live. but he stays happy, because if he dies, then his mother died for nothing and jung wooyoung just can’t have that, no sir that just won’t do.

-

choi san and jung wooyoung first met at the ripe age of ten.

san had slipped off of the playground equipment during a particularly rainy recess and skinned his palm on the jagged wood-chips. he cried for a grand total of about five minutes until a bleach blond boy waddled towards him with worry clearly etched onto his chubby face.

“i’m jung wooyoung! but you can call me woo, or youngie, or wooyo, some people call me that but i don’t like it very much. anyway. you look nervous. are you nervous? why? wait. no. you’re sad. you look sad. why? is it because of the wood chips? they hurt but don’t worry, i know how to make it better! here, take my hand. you’re new, aren’t you? i can tell. i’ve never seen your face before... i like your dimples! oh, you never told me your name by the way...”

maybe he talked too much and asked too many questions and looked like he had stumbled upon the sun itself, but san took his hand anyway, and they walked together to the nurses office where he was treated and released with a gauzed hand, a bandage, and a new best friend. his  _ first _ _best friend_.

—

“sannie?”

“yes, wuwu?”

they’re sitting on the train tracks behind their apartment building, looking up at the sky as it turns from a medium blue to intermingling oranges, purples, and pinks.

“i know i’ve been bad lately, skipping school ‘n stuff... but i just don’t care anymore. besides, if i hear that stupid D.A.R.E. assembly one more time i’m gonna shoot myself. do they really think any 13 year old would do drugs? we’re not even legal to smoke cigarettes yet.”

“wooyoungie, you do realize you smoked a cigarette two days ago right? the D.A.R.E assembly said that drug addiction _always_ starts young and most of the time it’s with—“

“san, i’m not gonna turn into a drug addict. it was one time, and it wasn’t even that good. all i did was cough.” wooyoung scoffs, raking his bitten nails across the pebbles separating each worn wooden plank. 

“fine. you have to promise me though. please. if you do something stupid, i’m going down with you.” san holds his pinky out, expectantly.

“oh, _mountain_ ,” wooyoung sighs, linking their fingers together. “you care too much. don’t worry about me, you have much better things to worry about in life.” the scars that adorn wooyoung’s arm as he reaches out make san’s chest feel tight.

it’s when san reaches the door to his apartment that he realizes; wooyoung may have linked their pinkies, but he did not utter a single _promise_.

—

when san is 14 years old, he tries his first cigarette and coughs until he sees spots. wooyoung is there for him though, as always, patting his back and cheering him on proudly. “see, sannie, that wasn’t so bad now was it?” tears stream down sans face as he glares at wooyoung. “it was fucking horrible. i told you you were gonna get addicted, now i am too. you never listen to me. it’s gonna fuck you up one day,” san scowls, taking an absent-minded drag from the cigarette in his hand before stomping it out on the ground.

—

by the time san is 15, his clothes— and wooyoung’s alike, smell like cigarettes too. he lays flat on his bed with his best friend on top of him, kissing him dizzy, and a craving for more than a cigarette could ever satisfy thrums through his body. smoke wafts between the two of them as they pass the cancerous stick around like it’s candy.

san was a  _ good _ boy, his mother told him daily, even though she knew he had started smoking and desperately tried to pull him away from that “ _dangerous_ jung wooyoung boy,” but he never listened.

_ eomma, he’s just going through a hard time. he needs me. i’m like, the only good thing he’s got. please... you know what that’s like. i know you do. just let me help him, okay? _

_ and who would his mother be to deny her precious son of wanting to help someone? of course she let’s him off the hook. _

—

despite wooyoung’s questionable _hobbies_ he shares with san, there  are  times when the both of them act like normal teenagers. there are times when wooyoung and san cuddle each other while eating two whole boxes of pizza and way too much pepsi for their 16 year old brains to handle. they watch netflix k-dramas together throughout the night, even though they both catch each other staring more than watching the screen of sans laptop.

when san leans in and presses a soft kiss onto wooyoung’s lips,  gently,  wooyoung doesn’t pull back.

“been wanting to do that a long time, wuwu,” he smiles up at the younger boy like he’s his everything.

“yeah, me too. thanks for doing it first... can’t help but kiss you like i’m deprived sometimes. like when you’re soft with me though. more pepsi?”

“mmh, hand it over, loser.” 

wooyoung and san fall asleep to itaewon class playing softly in the earbuds they share. their heads are pressed together and wooyoung’s arm rests comfortably around san’s waist.

life is good. life, for once, is calm and san doesn’t feel worried about anything. 

—

“ tell me, sannie,” wooyoung says, kissing down his boyfriends neck softly, “have you ever smoked weed? ‘s like... sooo much better than cigarettes. health wise too. wish the high would stay longer though.”

they’re seventeen, in the basement of wooyoung’s grandparents house, and san shakes his head.

“i haven’t, eomma says it’s not good. says it’s a “gateway drug,” or some shit like that. but a lot of people at our school do. always hear them brag about it in the hallways. what’s there to even brag about, wuwu..?” 

the kisses on his neck transfer to his jaw, and he feels a sharp tug on his earlobe and a low voice that transcends his entire existence whispering in his ear, “there’s _sooo_ much to brag about sannie. do you wanna try some with me? don’t even have to smoke it. just like how we used to smoke cigarettes in the beginning. open your mouth and just let me blow it in... ‘s called shotgunning. don’t think i’ve actually told you that before—“ 

“okay. yeah. yeah, show me.”

when wooyoung kisses the smoke deep into the crevices of his mouth, tongues exploring each other like they’ve been apart for years, san giggles. and giggles again. and he can’t stop.

_ he  can’t stop. _ no matter how much he wants to, he keeps laughing, so hard that nothing comes out and it’s hard for him to breathe and every atom in his body feels like it’ll _explode_ from the pressure in his throat and lungs and stomach clenching in on itself. he’s curled in on himself on the musty dirty floor of the basement, and by the time he stops laughing there’s tears in his eyes. but he’s  happy.  everything feels so calm to him, suddenly. the urge to do  something  nags at his brain like a pesky bee . _read, write, paint, anything_ _ for the love of god, just do  something .  _

“can i give you a stick and poke, youngie?”

“only if i can do you too.”

poorly written _ j.wy + c.sn = love _ stays tattooed on both of their wrists for years to come.

—

it’s sans 18th birthday when he’s woken up by the love of his life, excitedly declaring that “sannie’s finally 18, so that means he gets a _mega super gigantic_ birthday party with lots of booze and weed and— and.  _party drugs_. ” wooyoung’s eyes flit across the room frantically. san should be used to his high highs and low lows, but it’s still hard to manage when his boyfriend was only diagnosed with bipolar disorder two weeks before. 

“wooyoungie, my manic little bunny boy, take a deep breath for me. party drugs are not happening. no way in hell am i gonna let myself forget what’s it’s like to rail my boyfriend for the first time because i’m high off lsd.”

“trust me, you won’t forget, not with the hookups i have, my people have good shit, i mean like...  _ good _ shit. snow is where it’s at though, it’s more manageable than the other harder drugs they sell... sannie i promise you’ll be fine, please please _pleaseeee_? what’s life if you don’t risk a little? boooring, that’s what. the hollywood celebrities do coke all the time and they turn out _fine_! if you don’t do at least one party drug tonight i’m disowning you.”

“...young-ah... are you telling me you’ve—“

“no! no, i promise i didn’t. not yet at least. maybe after tonight though,” he wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. san makes a disapproving huff, shoving him nearly off the bed. “‘m going back to sleep.”

—

he did it. san has absolutely no idea how, but wooyoung has created the best party san could ever think of. ones he’s only seen in teen movies. it’s mesmerizing, how colorful the lights are, how the music really does thump throughout the room as his schoolmates grind on each other scandalously. well, _maybe movies are accurate sometimes._

everything is fine, going according to plan, there’s beer, booze, snacks and soda. a multitude of pizza boxes stacked in the stagnant basement, home to the birth of  _j.wy + c.sn_.

and then he sees wooyoung. he’s talking,  a lot.  and wooyoung  always talks. but he sees wooyoung’s mouth moving at what looks like twice the speed of light, only pausing to take  huge, slow  intakes of breath. san knows when wooyoung sees him because when he turns towards him his eyes are blown wide and he actually  screams. _loud._

“sannieeeeee, my favorite birthday boy i didn’t know you were here ohmygod isn’t this like the best party ever i totally don’t know who did it but it’s so— _ohmygod_. you look so hot right now you look. like. really hot like. so sexy i think... i think i wanna _fuck_ you. yeah let’s _fuck_ , i’m really hard i think we should _fuck_ , right now. _no_. wait, oh my  god you have to try this here follow me right now. come on come on!”

before he even has a chance to decline (really he wouldn’t just because it’s  _ wooyoung  _ with his big eyes and small irises and pupils blown wide and he just looks so _vulnerable_ how could san say no?), wooyoung is dragging him by the arm to the basement, where 5 other boys reside. wooyoung claps excitedly.

“eek! okay okay, okay. san, just. shhh okay, just. listen. _okay_ ,” he breathes, slow and shallow “ _okay_. heh. this is hongjoong, seonghwa, yunho, yeosang, and mingi. there was supposed to be 6 of them but _apparently_ the youngest dude didn’t like the idea so he left. good for him i guess but i feel great! anyways, these are the friends i was talking about you know, earlier when i was making out with you in bed yeah, these are the... guys.  _guys_.  he hasn’t done a single drug in his life except for smoking weed. don’t you think he should try this, wouldn’t that be so _cool_?”

san is sober but his mind is reeling. the rational part of him sees his boyfriend soaring into a dangerous uncharted territory, but the fomo part of his brain is jealous that he doesn’t get to experience it with wooyoung, especially when the younger is pointing against him and feeling him up like its his last time they’ll be together.

choi san had one fatal flaw. he could never say no.

—

san doesn’t think he’s ever felt this  good  in his _life_. everything is so intense and warm and fuzzy and he feels like he’s so close to coming just from wooyoung’s gentle touches alone. he’s only snorted a line and his pants are already tented, cock straining pathetically against the abrasive material, as he sits legs spread in front of all of wooyoung’s previously mentioned friends, but he’s so wound up that he can’t find it in himself to give a fuck. not when wooyoung is looking at him like  that  and rubbing his hand on san’s chest over his fucking ridiculously soft, fluffy, sweater that’s dragging just right across his nipples.

“fuck, why is it _so hot_ in here,” he near growls, yanking the sweater off and keening into wooyoung’s touch when he still keeps going because  holy fuck. 

“holy fuck, _baby_ , if you keep doing that i’m gonna cum... youngie, i’m serious i’m gonna—“ his hand pulls away and san can’t stop the embarrassingly loud whine that pours out of his mouth.

“damn, wooyoung-ah, you never told me your boy was so needy. it’s cute,” a short, blue haired man smirks, hand resting on the equally as aroused black haired man next to him.

“you wanna give him a try, hongie?” wooyoung smirks, pinching one of his boyfriends pert nipples.

just like that, sans body tenses and he lets out a guttural moan as he comes in his pants. it’s the best feeling he’s ever felt, white hot, blinding pleasure that he never wants to go away.

when he comes to, he’s still hard and not tired at all. there’s 5 pairs of eyes on him and he blushes, hiding his face in wooyoung’s neck.

“ oh, sannie ,” wooyoung feigns sympathy, “did you just blow your load in front of everyone, hm?” san can hear wooyoung’s friends snickering in the background but he can’t bring himself to be all that embarrassed when wooyoung’s neck smells like home twice as much, feels twice as soft, looks twice as pretty to mark up.

“mhm,” is his muffled pitiful response as he breathes in the earthy, coffee-like scent of his boyfriend.

“ _oh_ , you  poor  thing. does my mountain wanna go upstairs and feel me up, hm? you wanna be a good boy and make me feel good for your birthday?”

san moans, grabbing tightly at the base of wooyoung’s hair and tugging. “‘m your mountain, baby, as long as i’m yours,  _ mount everest ain’t got shit on me _ _._ right now, with you,  _ i’m on top of the world. _ ” san knows he doesn’t make any sense, knows that he’s fucked (in every sense of the word) but he can’t help but feel so confident and powerful. he feels as if _nothing_ could stop him.

he lets go of wooyoung’s hair, leans down, and snorts another thin white line off the glass coffee table.

—

san can’t do  anything . the moment he’d bent wooyoung over the bed they shared most nights, his aim is off and he can’t even sink his cock into wooyoung the way he wants.

since wooyoung is a mischievous little bitch, instead of helping him by guiding his cock where it goes, he bends san over and takes him first.

“god, sannie, you feel so fucking good, s-so good i love it i love you oh fuck baby,” wooyoung is rambling, moaning wantonly and thrusting into san so aggressively that the headboard is slamming into the wall. below him, san is whimpering and torn between rutting into the mattress or grinding back against wooyoung’s cock.

“‘m i good for you? ‘m i a good boy? wanna be a good boy i’ll do anything, i’ll do anything wuwu wanna be yours i’ll.... i’ll—  _oh fuck fuck me right there youngie pleasepleaseplease_ ‘m gonna—“  san whines loudly, his hips stuttering as he comes hard, the majority of it getting on himself and the mattress.

“you’re so good... you’re so good you’re my good boy,  fuck sannie, yeah that’s it just like that milking my cock so good baby god, i love you you’re all mine.  mine.” he punctuates the last word with a tug on sans hair that goes straight to his cock, but he’s getting tired and too lazy to continue, so instead he moans weakly.

wooyoung fucks him two more times that night. san loves every minute of it, even if he’s too tired to move.

—

coming down from a coke high is the most terrifying experience san has ever gone through. san can’t stop pacing, looking through the shutters of his window, and wooyoung keeps asking him if they’re going to be in trouble and he won’t just-

“ shut up, wooyoung!”

“ w-what?”

“i said shut up! god, you just keep talking asking me things i don’t know, like what do you want me to say “oh yeah don’t worry babe we’ll be just fine,” what the fuck?”

“i’m sorry,” wooyoung’s voice sounds small, his lithe body shaking like a feather. san wants to cry. 

“ _fuck_. oh, no no wooyoung... youngie i’m sorry. please don’t cry i-i’m s-sorry too i just. i’m really really tired wuwu, can we... can we just go to sleep now? come here, let me cuddle you.”

“okay. okay, sannie. we can sleep, just close your eyes and we’ll be out in no time.”

san and wooyoung stay awake for hours until the inevitable exhaustion catches up to them, crashing over the two in waves.

—

the second time san touches the white powder, he’s with wooyoung and his same friends from the week before. the high is more manageable now, like wooyoung had said. however, pleasure still thrums through his body in waves. he still pants whenever wooyoung grinds down on his lap whispering dirty things in his ear, he still grips wooyoung’s ass like a vice and forces him down on his cock in front of the same five people.

“sannie, you should stop calling me wuwu, it’s kind of pathetic at this point,” wooyoung moans out, his back arching just enough that his ass is fully presented to the rest of the men in the room. maybe he’s kind of an attention whore.

“but you l-like it,” san grits out, hand coming down hard on the curve of wooyoung’s asscheek. the younger moans.

“well now i don’t,” wooyoung snaps, grabbing a fistful of the dyed black hair and tugging harshly, “just call me woo. we aren’t kids anymore, alright? we’re _adults_ now.”

sans heart feels weird, and he feels like crying. so he does. he buries his face in wooyoung’s neck and cries while he grips his hips and thrusts up into him relentlessly.

wooyoung comes until he can’t anymore. san never does.

the comedown still feels the same as the last time, wooyoung still won’t shut up, and san is still so  fucking  tired.

(“more, wuwu. i need more.”

“i meant it when i said no more nicknames, sannie. i’ll get you more tomorrow.” 

“i need more  now , w-woo.”

“i’ll call.”)

san shakes for the rest of the night.

—

it’s become a common occurrence to hang out with wooyoung and his friends, so much so that they’ve all become like brothers. in the months passing, however, san and wooyoung’s close relationship hasn’t felt the same. the higher san is, the meaner wooyoung is and the more his heart hurts.

what hurts the most isn’t even wooyoung yelling at him. it’s not the lack of cuddles, the lack of communication, not even the lack of love itself that san notices.

instead, it’s when wooyoung starts offering san up for more drugs. sannie, his mountain, his eager boyfriend who would do  anything  for him, even if that means gagging on five more than average sized cocks in a single day.

not that san minds  _that_ part.  he’s too high and horny to care about how pathetic he looks rubbing off on yunho’s shoe, or lazily sucking the tip of hongjoong’s cock or even getting his mouth fucked by yeosang. because he’s  _ so happy  _ to have drugs to take home at the end of the day.

so he gives head like his life depends on it, sloppy and messy and noisy and fucking _filthy_.

but it doesn’t minimize the hurt when wooyoung starts to act like he’s just a toy. san isn’t exactly sure what happened, what got them to this point, but he knows that as of now, wooyoung is the _only_ one he has. and he’s afraid of the fact that wooyoung seemingly doesn’t need him in the way he used to.

“fuck, woo, your bitch really  _ is  _ needy,” hongjoong smirks running his hand through san’s hair gently.

“yeah, he always has been. it’s cute. always so clingy since we met.” wooyoung boasts, scoffing. 

_ What...? ...What..?? _

“i am  _ not  _ the needy one in—“

“sannie, you don’t have to pretend around these guys, they don’t judge,” wooyoung smiles, but it looks more like a warning, so san goes with it anyway.

“yeah... yeah, i’m needy, i’m a desperate whore, ill fuck anyone my wuwu wants me to. s-swear on it.” he whimpers out, cheeks burning red and tears welling in his eyes.

he’s never been more humiliated in his life.

—

san is in trouble.  a _lot_ of trouble if the glare on wooyoung’s face has anything to say about it.

they stare at each other in silence for what feels like minutes. wooyoung steps forward and san flinches and...  _ oh. that’s new. i’ve never done that before,  _ he thinks.

wooyoung pauses.

and then san’s cheek is stinging and he’s on the floor.

“you pull that shit again and you’ll get more than a slap. you’re  _ my  _ bitch. got it? not the other way around. you don’t get to tell everyone how i act when we’re  alone.  they wouldn’t get it, sannie. they would  _ judge _ me. no more calling me wuwu, i said it three times already. if i have to say it again, i’m not giving you a single fucking warning. _no more_ speaking out of turn, _no more_ cute nicknames, _no more_ acting like a fucking child, okay sannie?”

“i-i’m sorry, i’m sorry... i didn’t know. ‘m sorry... i won’t do it again i promise...” san is shaking, arms wrapped around his knees and breathing heavily.

wooyoung nods and throws a bag at him, walking over to his bed.

it’s not what san expects it to be. a powder that looks quite similar to his drug of choice, yes, but along with it is a capped needle.

“wooyoung-ah... is this—“

“heroin.”

san chokes. “young-ah, you’re fucking insane. i’m  not  doing  heroin. you promised i would get coke, not _this_ shit—“

wooyoung’s hand is gripping san’s face, pushing his lips out in an unintentional pout. “sannie, _babe_ , if i give you coke right now, you’re gonna have a heart attack. what you need is to calm down. that’ll help, i promise.” he lets go of his face, patting it more than gently and watches with a grin as san uncaps the needle.

“o-okay. tell me how.”

so he does.

-

if cocaine was a wet dream, heroin was heaven.

there was a time in his life when san had vowed never to touch a needle, not in the way people had warned him about. no, you see, sannie was a good boy. he would never, ever do anything having to do with needles.

“eomma, you know me,” he had whispered under his breath with tears in his eyes. “i would never touch those kinds of drugs. they’re horrible. i’ve seen what they do to people.” his mother had caught him coming home from wooyoung’s, eyes bloodshot, and rummaging through the kitchen for a plethora of snacks.

“munchies?” she had quipped, sending a knowing look of disappointment to her startled son.

“eomma... eomma i—“

“don’t. i don’t want to hear any more excuses. but when you go out and start doing more than... this... don’t come to my doorstep asking for money, because you will lie to me, and i won’t do it. i won’t see you like that. i refuse. do you understand, san-ah?”

when san promised— no, scolded her for even thinking that way, she took it to heart, believed him. because she never had a reason not to. sannie was her good boy, sannie told her everything. even the things he knew would get him in trouble. he told her the first time he smoked, the first time he drank, even the first time he asked wooyoung out. so why wouldn’t she have had reason to trust him and his word?

now, san thinks, maybe she shouldn’t have.

\--

san is a moaning, limp, empty-headed mess in wooyoung's lap, so fucking high that he could cum from wooyoung petting his head, running his long fingers through san's hair gently.

"you okay, sannie..?" wooyoung hums, running his hand down his chest soothingly.

"uhn.... h-hhhuh," san shudders, brows furrowed and mouth open in a silent moan, "fuck, love when you do that."

"breathe, baby," wooyoung mumbles, disregarding his boyfriend's statement and kissing the space between san's brows.

san inhales, long and slow, before he giggles.

"youngie, i found the secret to life... it makes so much sense..." he whispers under his breath.

"oh, you did now? tell me, then."

"... fuck, i forgot. it made so much sense, wuwu, so much sense." he gasps again, the air feeling even more welcome to his lungs this time.

"yeah, 'course it did, my little genius," wooyoung hums, stroking san's jawline, the sharp bone sticking out more than usual.

they stay quiet for a while, sans legs twitching occasionally and stopping when wooyoung's voice seeps through the paradise in his mind. there's a pink shadow in the corner of the basement 

"let me tattoo you, sannie. gonna tattoo my name on you like we did that one time... 's fading and people should know."

"okay," san says, eyes focused on the corner of the room. "what's that pink shadow... it wants to talk to us woo..." san mumbles, dumbly.

"tell it we say hi, babe," wooyoung mocks, slipping out of san's grip and grabbing the newly acquired tattoo gun he'd bought without san's knowledge.

"stay still," wooyoung jokes, knowingly.

"'mkay, i will. gonna be a good boy for you," san whines, the needle suddenly poking rapidly at his inner thigh.

"does it hurt, baby?"

"no, just tickles," he smiles, watching the gun buzz across his thigh.

property of jung wooyoung reads cursive, bold, jet black and permanent on his upper thigh, "for as long as we're alive, sweetie."

-

"wooyoung, not to be a bitch or anything but why the fuck is your name like... permanently on my thigh? and why am i suddenly just owned by you? what the fuck?"

of course san wouldn't remember, wooyoung knows that, as san was practically near the edge of an overdose at the time he started, but he hadn't expected san to ask about it while he's lurched over the toilet vomiting so hard the veins in his neck are bulging out.

"you need to eat, san," wooyoung says in response gripping harshly at the back of sans neck at the eye roll he gets in return.

san insists, bitterly, that no, he will not be eating or drinking anything because if he does, he'll definitely vomit his intestines out. if he leaves the bathroom with a red handprint on his cheek and a bottle of water in his hand that he gags down—before puking it back up on the floor and being called a complete fucking drama queen, jesus christ san-ah— they don't talk about it.

("you did this to me, asshole," san whispers under his breath, bumping shoulders with wooyoung purposefully.

"what was that, babe?" wooyoung asks, hand gripping his hair and pulling back sternly.

"you did this to me," san squeaks out, eyes wide.

"oh," wooyoung pouts, "you did this to yourself, sannie...you could've said no. obviously you wanted to if you didn't say no." wooyoung grins, sadistic and satisfied with the sob that slips past san's lips.)

they don’t talk about it.  
—  
“since you tattooed me as your property, can i tattoo you as mine?” san asks, on his knees of all times, looking up at him with innocent eyes as he tongues at his cock.

it had been half a year since that fateful day, and the longest san had stayed clean since then was a week every now and again when he would promise wooyoung he would stay sober. the withdrawals were always the hardest for san, the vomiting, the hallucinations, the fucking pink shadows in the basement. he had overdosed twice, had to be revived by choi jongho of all people, and oh, it makes sense now why he was never around, having parents that work as doctors always teaching him things since birth, of course he was qualified enough at age 20 to fix san up so he wouldn’t have to go to the hospital. but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t have, jongho reminds, albeit defensively when wooyoung glares at him.

now, san thinks, maybe it’s wooyoung’s turn to get shitfaced and tattooed and though he’s on his knees for him and at his mercy, he’s most certainly not afraid to ask with confidence.

“you think you deserve your name on me when you can’t even suck cock right?” he grits out, shoving san’s head down until he’s nosing at the sparse pubic hairs. he gags, gripping wooyoung’s thighs tighter and moaning around his length.

“yeah, there you go, sweetheart. that’s a good bitch— ah!” wooyoung hisses, yanking san off of his cock, hard. 

san sits on his knees, smirking proud at his disobedience, and when wooyoung kicks at sans own erection— straining in his jeans— in retaliation and san curls in on himself, macho demeanor fading just as quickly as it started, it makes wooyoung smile.

“you know the pathetic thing about you, sannie?” wooyoung snaps, yanking sans hair so violently that he nearly gets whiplash from how hard his head flies back. wooyoung wraps his hand around sans neck and presses, light at first but building pressure quickly. he laughs. “you know, you could fight me, baby. you definitely would’ve had a fair chance of beating me, especially in the beginning. but you’re just so fucking nice. 

nice good boy sannie who could never do no harm, never hurt his precious boyfriend wuwu, isn’t that right? a fucking child, ‘s what you are. so doped up you can’t think about anything except the next time you get to hump something till you cream your pants like a 12 year old.” he sneers, hand coming down on his clothed ass, heavy. “you could get off from me touching you through your clothes like this couldnt you babe? that’s how fucking pathetic you are. you’re just a useless little toy now, sannie. should pimp you out, send you to a strip club make you work your ass for the money you need so bad, hm? you buy your own drugs, babe. you do your own shit. since you wanna bite my dick about it.”

“i’m sorry,” is all san can reply with, too mindless to think of a reasonable response. “i’m sorry, i’m sorry, i can prove it,” he whispers, nuzzling his cheek against wooyoung’s cock in a pathetic show of affection.

“i don’t know, sannie, i think you just fucked up. maybe, just maybe i’ll let you tattoo your name on me, only because you’re so needy for it,” he smirks, and san immediately knows there’s more to it than that. 

“woo, what are you fucking planning?”

“write your name on my neck.”

“okay??”

“your full name, choi san.”

ah, of course. any way to gain power of the situation, wooyoung will take. including using his family name as some kind of fucked up branding.

“you’re fucked in the head,” san sighs before grabbing the electric needle placed chaotic in the middle of the mess of paperwork, “straws,” and white powder residue on their shared table and going to work.

“i could hurt you really bad with this yanno,” san says at one point, resisting the urge to dig it deep into his neck.

“yeah, but you won’t.”

“says who?”

“say anyone who values their fucking life, dumbass.”

san knows that wooyoung doesn’t do empty threats, so he stays quiet and only slightly sniffles when he has to finish his name off all pretty and bold and dark with tiny little mountains and a sun with three tiny rays of light in the middle to match. it’s a cute reminder of the innocence san still holds that he’s wooyoung’s mountain forever, and wooyoung doesn’t bitch about it except for maybe an eye roll. san takes it in stride. wooyoung is proud though he doesn’t show it, and san understands.

"i'm done," he starts, frowning and wiping the droplets of blood from his neck for the last time. " _owner of choi san,"_ san gushes sarcastically.

"don't catch an attitude with me, san-ah, see what happens." wooyoung glares.

"watch me, asshole. i'm tired of you, young-ah. you changed. you used to be better than this. you humiliate me, and for what? you gonna hit me again, huh? gonna call me your brain-dead whore of a kitten, wuwu?" he seethes, angrily.

"keep fucking talking, sannie. i dare you to say another fucking word." wooyoung nearly growls, tensing.

" _another fucking wo-_ " san is on the floor before he even knows what had happened, but his nose feels crooked, and the warmth on his face and blood in his mouth is indicative enough of what wooyoung had just done.

"wooyoung... woo... did you just... you... you broke my nose," san squeaks out, tears welling up in his eyes.

"oh, _fuck._ fuck, _baby i'm so sorry,_ i didn't mean to, i swear," he rushes out, reaching for his chin to assess the damage. san flinches away.

"don't touch me!" he whimpers, backing up against the door to the staircase.

" _baby..."_

"no," san warns, " _no. no._ i'm leaving," he whispers, reaching for the doorknob.

"...okay. okay, baby. fine. just... just _give me a kiss_ before you go, okay?" wooyoung pleads, _caressing_ the ever darkening bruise on san's face.

"i-i... hng... okay." san sighs, leaning up and slotting his lips against wooyoung's.

it's soft, gentle, sweet. everything a kiss should be but never is for san, and he already knows he'll be coming back for more. but he doesn't let wooyoung know that, so instead he kisses him harder, the blood from his nose mingling between their tongues, mixing with the spit from their mouths. _messy. it's fucking messy._

san is coming back.

wooyoung's hand rests on his hips, bones so sharp they're visible through the jeans he's wearing. he rubs gentle circles against it, lovingly.

san is coming back.

the kisses on san's neck are soft, warm, wooyoung's breath is _warm_ against the cold of his exposed collarbones. his tongue glides across all the right places; he nibbles on sans earlobe.

san is coming back.

hands run up and down his shaking, pale and sickly thin frame, scraping gently the way he likes down his grossly visible rib cage.

san is coming back.

" _be safe. i love you."_

san is coming back.

the places once warm are back to bitter cold, the creaking of the staircase is screeching in his ears with no remorse. the door closes. he is free. san is _leaving._

_-_

_san came back._


	2. dancer in the dark (cinnamon girl)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sannie gets hurt, hongjoong is always there to help. he still fucks up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for mentions of hard drugs (specifically heroin, fentanyl, and cocaine), use of hard drugs, needles, straws, improper bdsm etiquette, gaslighting, lots of angst, semi-explicit sexual content, extremely dubious consent, humiliation, name calling, physical abuse, emotional abuse, strip clubs, graphic depictions of rape/non-con (not any of the members except for san), and the like. please be extremely careful.

“you lied to me,” san sobs, soaking wet and covered with scratches and splotches of _violet-blue-green-red_ across every inch of his body. there’s blood on his thighs and his fishnets are torn-- ripped open in places they most certainly shouldn't have been. his nose looks worse than it did before, as does the rest of his achingly fragile body.

he hadn’t meant to start trouble, _god_ _no_ , that’s just the thing san was trying to get away from. So he went to hongjoong.

though one of wooyoung’s friends, he had always been the softest out of all of them aside from mingi and yunho— who really was just caught up in the wrong crowd, just like san had been. if he’s being honest, the ‘99-line along with hongjoong and seonghwa were soft in comparison to wooyoung, but of all of them, hongjoong definitely had his heart.

hongjoong was the leader of the quote-unquote _gang_ that wooyoung was a part of.

“how long did you guys talk before the party?” san had asked, curious. wooyoung had mentioned that he knew people but never spoke more on the topic and in turn, san never asked.

“i was fifteen, he was just fourteen i believe, why?” hongjoong had countered, wiping off the last of the blood crusted under wooyoung’s nose. only when san had let out an inhuman screech did hongjoong realize he slipped information that san hadn’t needed to know.

“fourteen... fourteen? fucking _fourteen_!?” san had all but growled, “you’ve been getting drugs for him to sell since he was fourteen?”

“oh, san-ah… he’s been doing drugs since he was fourteen. wasn’t always coke, but he’d started off with pills. uppers, sannie. for people who have adhd and stuff like that, it calms them down, but for people who don’t, it makes them more hyper.”

_suddenly, everything made sense._

“hongjoong, woo told me he was bipolar. if he was taking uppers, wouldn’t he be calmer?”

the look on hongjoong’s face was confirmation enough for san.

wooyoung was never bipolar. he was on drugs. they weren’t manic episodes, they were _highs_. he wasn’t grumpy because he was on medication, he was grumpy from the _comedowns_.

“oh my god. hongjoong, please tell me you’re lying…” 

“i can’t do that, sweetheart. wooyoungie was never bipolar.”

“hong...” the man on his lap, seonghwa, chastised.

“hwa, pretty, can you run a bath for sannie here? i think he’d like it very much,” hongjoong interrupted, his fingers carding through seonghwa’s hair gently. the rocking man in his lap sighed, leaning into the soft kiss hongjoong had pressed to the nape of his neck before retreating to the washroom.

“alright, your turn,” hongjoong had sighed, patting his lap and looking at san expectantly.

“my turn for..?” san raised a brow. “hongjoong i’m not five anymore-”

“sit.” hongjoong demanded, eyes burning into san in such a way that he couldn’t say no.

he sighed, crawling over to the other side of the loveseat, and plopped into his hyung's lap.

hongjoong had said nothing at first, his fingers just combing through san’s bleached blond curls, rocking him slowly. san had forgotten how it felt to not be scared of affection for the first time in a while. the last time san hadn’t been afraid, well… he’d have to think about it. unfortunately though, hongjoong’s voice cut through the thoughts floating in his mind before he could’ve picked one out.

“talk to me, sannie. just let it all go, sweetie. let it go. i’m right here.” he reassures gently, kissing sans forehead so carefully that it makes san feel fragile.

“there’s things i wanna talk about,” san had said, “but it’s better not to give.”

“sannie-”

“if you hold me without hurting me, you’ll have been the first who ever did.” san sniffled, lazily wiping at the tears that threatened to escape his eyes.

“i don’t know what to do anymore, joongie. i mean, look at me… i’m a mess. i’ve got scars all over, i can't go a day without getting high, and every time i’ve tried, hes waved the drugs in my face over and over again, telling me how i’ll be nothing without them, without him, and the fucked up thing is; he’s right. i spent my entire life trying to protect him, trying to make sure he had me, that i didn’t realize how much of myself i was losing. and now it's too late. nothing can help me anymore, hongjoongie, not even you. we all have problems, mine are just… i can't go back to how i was. because when i think about it, we’ve really only had each other. he was the only one i could call my best friend. when you’re popular, you don’t have friends. you have people who wanna use you. being popular was so fucking stressful, it’s not as fun as everyone makes it out to be. it’s not some cute little life, its full of constantly worrying that you might let people down, constantly having a fucking image to uphold, all this stupid, stupid bullshit that doesn’t even matter after you graduate. and you know what, joongie? i should be pissed at you. i should be, since you gave a _fourteen_ year old pills, but i can’t because even if you knew, you were sixteen and you didn’t know he was using until it was too late, but why him, hongjoongie? why would you choose my wooyoungie..?” san’s voice cracked, and if there were teardrops soaked onto the shoulder of san’s crop top, hongjoong didn’t talk about it because that's where his head was resting, and hongjoong doesn't cry.

“i’m sorry, sannie. i’m so sorry,” he whispered, thumbing at the tears rolling down san’s cheeks like waterfalls. “i didn’t know...:”

“that doesn’t matter hongjoong, that's not what i asked. it really doesn’t matter who, you still enabled a child’s drug addiction, and now you have a lapful of said drug dealers cokehead heroin addict of a boyfriend who acquired those drugs. you let me get used right in front of you, so how are you gonna act like you feel so bad, or so sorry? _hongjoong you watched me get high for the first time with your hand down seonghwa’s pants. hongjoong, you watched me get high for the first time stroking your boyfriend off until he came. hongjoong you watched me get high for the first time and used my mouth for your own pleasure. hongjoong, you watched me ruin my fucking life for the first time and it turned you on. hongjoong, you watched me kill my soul for the first time and called me his bitch and he uses it against me. hongjoong, you watched me die, with a beating heart, and did nothing_.” 

hongjoong had sobbed into san’s neck for the first time since they’d met. he’d apologized through sobs, and they had both sat there, tears cascading down each other's faces and years of pent up trauma spoken between the both of them. 

hongjoong had questionable hobbies and a horrible moral compass, but hongjoong was not a horrible person in general. or maybe he was, but he wasn’t wooyoung, the man who laid hands on him in every way he could think of, rather than just one.

which is why, when san was walking home and two covered pairs of hands dragged him into an alleyway, san had screamed out hongjoong’s name instead of his lovers.

san had screamed until the fingers down his throat prevented him from doing so. his body had gone stiff in the arms of his captors, and the years of training he had learned slipped his mind out of fear. he could do nothing as he was used--abused, by the rough hands around his neck and thighs. the sound of his fishnets being torn snapped him back to reality, as he kicked up one of his legs hard enough that he felt impact and a sickening crack from the area it had hit. the distraction had given him enough time to get up, but his mind and body were in two places at once as he stumbled and tripped over the heels he was wearing.

“bitch,” one of them mumbled under their breath, yanking him up by his hair and landing a painful blow to the side of his cheek. “couldn’t just be a good fucking boy, could you, hm?” he had asked, shoving his thumb into san’s mouth forcefully. 

san _broke_.

“i’m a good boy,” he sobbed out, body going limp, “i’m a good boy, i promise i’ll be a good boy.” he whispers, mind blanking.

so he did what he did for everyone; he laid there and took it, because if that’s what made him a good boy, then so be it. he laid there, tears rolling down his face, listening to the sound of cars passing and the muffled grunts in his ear as they came inside of him. the next person was worse; rougher and with no regard for san’s safety at all. he had gripped sans jaw, thrusting into him with no warning, like he was just a fucking toy for them to use. to bear with the pain, san thought back on his childhood. before things were bad, he had to remind himself. _before_ wooyoung, he reiterated. 

if it hadn’t been for hongjoong, san doesn’t think he would’ve been alive. he’s still not sure how it happened, but hongjoong had shown up at the exact moment one of them held a gun between san’s eyes.

the way people underestimated hongjoong made san’s blood boil in the worst of ways.

“well hello there, _little_ man, is this your bitch?” 

the sight of hongjoong clutching a gun so confidently in his hands sent shivers down san’s spine.

“do you fucking know who i am?” he had spat, “i own you. i’m the fucking best on the market, sweetheart. i could make your death look like a suicide down to the finest details and no one would even try to come for me because i am fear its-fucking-self, you useless excuse of a human life.” he growled.

they laughed, of course they laughed, because what could this tiny five-foot-something blue haired masked man possibly do to them? 

hongjoong set the gun on the ground where san grabbed it instinctively, hand being crushed by another man’s foot before he could use it himself.

“hongj... hongie no, joong, joongie, what...what are you doing _whydidyoudothat_ -” san whimpered, hand aching under the pressure of the man above him.

that is until it was freed from the compressive grip when hongjoong flipped open a pocket knife and slit the man’s throat, blood splattering on them both. san’s brain was miles behind, trying to catch up on the chaos of the situation unfolding before him. he was tired.

san watched as hongjoong stood, looking up at the man who had taken the last bit of sanity he had away, and clutched the gun to his chest with his injured hand as best he could.

he walked over to the man who still brandished a gun, though it shook in his trembling hands. hongjoong had an angry mind and nothing to live for, so when the gun pointed at his head steadied and the trigger clicked, he didn’t fear.

the gun had jammed.

“pussy,” hongjoong sneered, voice low and threatening. “look at you, all cornered and shit. shaking like a leaf… you deserve to die,” he started. “but then you would be with your friend and i think you deserve to suffer with the knowledge that because you decided to rape a helpless boy, your little friend over here is dead now.” he kneed the man in the crotch, who crumpled to the ground, with tears in his eyes. “who’s the tiny little man now, _sweetheart_?”

a gunshot had sounded, and the man before him stilled before slumping over.

the gunshots had rung out in quick succession after the first. it wasn’t hongjoong who had done it. 

hongjoong looked up at san, blood splattered on his face. he held the gun in his hands, shaking and teary eyed as he numbly emptied the magazine into the man until he was jolting with each bullet impact.

“san,” hongjoong had whispered, his hand resting on the gun cautiously. “sannie, san, stop. it’s okay, he’s dead. he’s dead, baby, he’s gone.” hongjoong pulled san into his arms, and held him for what seemed like hours as he wailed loudly.

“i’m sorry, i’m so sorry hongjoong i’m sorry,” the sound of the gun clattering on the gravel below snapped hongjoong back to reality.

“okay, alright, c’mon sannie, let’s go. let’s go home, okay?” hongjoong sighed, grabbing san’s hand and leading the shocked boy to his car.

san had turned down a ride home in exchange for walking himself, though hongjoong knew how dangerous these streets were at night, so luckily he had driven behind san just long enough to see what had happened, however that meant he had to run to catch up and that was something hongjoong wasn’t necessarily skilled at, ironically.

so san follows along, mind foggy and flooded with all and no emotions. he’s back at wooyoungs, he had asked. he had threatened to leave the car if hongjoong took him to his place, and the older just couldn’t have that. personally, hongjoong thought san was stupid for thinking that, but he also had no doubt that the younger would to begin with. so when they arrive at. wooyoung’s place, unrenovated and broken down since his grandparents passing, san gets out of the car and hongjoong watches him stumble painfully to the doorstep, and waits for him to get inside. hongjoong waits outside for an hour, windshield wipers swiping quickly, just in case. and so he drives _home_.

—

“you lied to me,” san sobs, soaking wet and covered with scratches and splotches of _violet-blue-green-red_ across every inch of his body. there’s blood on his thighs and his fishnets are torn-ripped open in places they most certainly _shouldn't_ have been. his nose looks worse than it did before, as does the rest of his achingly fragile body.

“ _baby_ …” wooyoung starts, eyes wide and mouth dropped in shock.

“ _no_. _don’t_ baby me. these,” san snaps, picking up the bottle of pills prescribed to one jung wooyoung, resting on the bedside table “these are fucking uppers. these are uppers from hongjoong and you lied to me. you lied to me for two years. and before you fucking ask, no. i’m not okay. and i’m not going to be. but i’m back. that’s what you wanted isn’t it? you wanted your good boy back right? well he’s here. you wanna know something wooyoung? if it weren’t for hongjoong i would be dead right now. i had a gun between my eyes, i was on my knees and i was called a good boy by two men as they brutally fucking assaulted me. i got held down and stepped on and kicked and torn and almost killed while you were in here snorting uppers and faking fucking manic episodes.” san is screaming so loudly that wooyoung has to cover his mouth in fear of authorities getting called, because even if he’s a selfish fuck, that wouldn’t end well for either of them.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, pulling san close. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry. i’m so sorry, sannie, san-ah, fuck i’m so sorry.” wooyoung repeats frantically, mind racing and body shaking for the man he loves for the first time in years. “my mountain, my baby, you’re okay. i’m sorry i’m sorry for lying, i just… i was gonna tell you, i was! i promise… i just couldn’t then. not when you looked so happy, not when you— not when you looked at me like that. i couldn’t tell you.” he pleads, grabbing sans face gently in his hands and turning it side to side. tears run down sans face as he leans into the gentle touch, the memories of wuwu and his mountain flooding back to san like a raging tsunami.

“wuwu,” he sobs out, gripping wooyoung close to him as best he can, eyes looking downwards to avoid the loving gaze of the man he so desperately wants to be with. “you’ve had _two_ years to tell me, two. but you didn’t. you don’t have an excuse anymore.”

“i know.” he mumbles under his breath, eyes closed as he runs his hand through san’s dripping wet hair.

“i’m cold. and i’m wet. and i’m bitter. and everything hurts.” san says, cheek pressing against the warm chest of his boyfriend.

“can i give you a bath, baby? promise i’ll be nice, i promise. just let me take care of you.” wooyoung pleads, resting his hand on the blooming bruise of sans cheek.

“okay.”

—

san missed the moments like this he used to have with wooyoung. he misses the feeling of gentle hands in his hair, but it’s saddening now.

it’s heartbreaking now, because it’s soft—too soft, as dirt and blood and grime turn the water a muddy red. it’s saddening now, because the words wooyoung says are the most gentle things he’s ever said to san in the years since his addiction had started. not a single bitch or whore has left his lips, instead a slew of caring words, of “i’m so proud of you,” and “you did so fucking good baby,” and “just relax, dove.” but perhaps what hurts the most is when wooyoung says quietly—while wiping his body down with a warm, soapy washcloth— “i need you.” it’s not a romantic turn of events, it’s not a show stopping incredible revelation, it’s not even a fucking plot twist. it’s a devastating admission of why san still stays; of why wooyoung gives yet takes.

“you need me… ,” san repeats under his breath, tears building in his eyes. if san could make a documentary of his life, it would be called to take all but my tears.

“mhm,” wooyoung nods, finally filling the tub full of water and bubbles that smell of eucalyptus and mint.

“ _so_ …” san laughs, bitter, leaning back against wooyoung’s chest to rest his head on his shoulder, “you got me addicted because you needed me?” he sighs, sinking into the bubbles as wooyoung massages his hair.

“no,” wooyoung says immediately. genuinely; a tone to his voice san hasn’t heard in a very long time. “no, baby, i didn’t. i didn’t mean to do this to you, not this. it really was just supposed to be for fun, just a stupid surprise for your birthday. usually people do party drugs and handle it well all the time and i thought—” he starts.

“you thought that i could take it because you forget you’ve been a pill popper since you were fucking fourteen. you could take it because you knew what highs felt like. you worked your way up to coke. you could handle it and deal with how good it felt. wooyoung, i never did a drug in my life every single day like you did. i never smoked all the time like you did. when i was with you, i would do it. only when i was with you. no fucking shit i got dependent on it, copying how many lines you snorted when it wasn’t your first time.” he scoffs, pushing wooyoung’s hands away from his hair. they wrap around his waist instead, but san doesn’t mind. 

“sannie, i was fucking _17_ , how was i supposed to know-”

“a real friend wouldn’t have even offered it. especially if they recognized their own dependency of other drugs. i'm high, not fucking stupid. never been stupid like you treat me. you just never fucking let me talk.” he snaps.

“if you would’ve come home looking fine, this would be a totally different conversation baby, because i would have made sure you had bruises by the end of the night, especially with the attitude you’re giving me right now when i'm trying to be nice.” wooyoung shrugs, casually. _there’s the wooyoung i know_ , san thinks.

san stops speaking. he glares at wooyoung’s reflection in the silver handle of the tub and thinks _fuck you_ instead.

they cuddle that night, laughing and crying over old memories, and for the first time in a while, san feels normal again. they fall asleep in each other's arms, giggling and stealing kisses and being _wuwu_ and _mountain_.

when san wakes the next morning, the bed is empty.

—

san _loved_ dancing, though it was something he rarely had the chance to do. he especially loved dancing in the rain, as cheesy as it sounded. so when he waits all day for wooyoung who hasn’t returned, he thinks fuck the rules. if wooyoung wasn’t there to enforce them, he sure as hell would dance in the rain if he wanted to.

it was dark. the stars twinkled in the night sky as he danced, moon glowing around him as he raised his arms and twirled. he was so graceful, yet so broken; the way his ribs protruded through his soaked white t-shirt when he angled his body a specific way. he dropped into near splits, toes pointed and body lurched forward as he brought his arms to his sides, bringing his legs back together and with impossible strength lifting his body off of the pavement. he spins, bringing his hands up to the sky, twirling them as the music in his earbuds drown out the sound of his boyfriend calling his name.

wooyoung had been watching him. the black haired man would never admit it, but he loved watching san dance. loved watching the emotions flow through his body when he thought he was alone; he would get up late at night when wooyoung should have been sleeping, set his metronome, and dance through the dark as tears made their way down his cheeks.

_wooyoung didn’t like when san broke rules._

_san is tired._

san is tired when his boyfriend suddenly has his jaw in a vice grip, and his fist pressing against the taut, bruised skin of sans ribcage.

“you disobeyed me, again. sannie, what have i told you about staying in the house while i'm gone?”

“ _wooyoungie, i’m tired of the rules,_ ” he sobs, knees weak under the younger mans glare. “i’m so fucking tired, i’m tired of _you_. _i hate you_. i really do. you’re abusive, you know that? you don’t even _love_ me anymore. did you ever even love me to begin with? you _didn’t_ , did you,” he gasps out, eyes flitting over his face as if he’s searching for wooyoung’s thoughts. “you know, i never realized how much you didn’t love me until you got me to _this_ point. i never realized how much you hated me, until you stopped being my _boyfriend_ and started beating me. you’re a _pussy_ wooyoung. you’re so alone, that you turn me into an addict to make me stay? you make me depend on you. you’re just nice enough that i feel like if i go to someone else they would make me worry.” he scoffs. wooyoung’s grip on his chin tightens. 

“shut up,” he grits out.

san is tired when he swings back, bony knuckles colliding with wooyoung’s cheek as he spits out a fuck you, don’t touch me, and there’s so much adrenaline running through his veins that it’s almost as if the drugs he had taken eariler never dissipated. of course wooyoung doesn’t retaliate, and when they end up on the cement with the remnants of dead skin cells and blood under their fingernails, they fight hard.

san breaks. it takes a lot for san to break. it takes too much for san to finally break.

san fights back for once in his life, and wooyoung has the bruises and scars and blood to prove it.

wooyoung gets the upper hand just as quickly though, his body nearly covering san’s frame, pinning him down. blood drips from the wounds on wooyoung’s face, landing in san’s open mouth. he watches as san closes his mouth and smirks up at him, licking his busted lip.

“i like watching you dance…” wooyoung whispers, a small admission that makes san’s broken heart flutter.

“i’ll dance for you sometime then. maybe if you were home you could’ve danced with me. you said you’d be gone for an hour and it’s been… way longer than that.” san’s voice fades out.

they look at each other with their eyes full of stars and money and drugs and lust and _everything that isn’t love,_ before their lips mold against one another, teeth clacking and tongues mingling and it’s all _spit and blood and tongue and teeth and fucking messy,_ a perfect anomaly for the insanity of their own relationship. wooyoung pulls away and the moonlight shines on the string of spit that connects the two. _the string breaks._

“you’re still an asshole,” san whispers, leaning his head back against the soaked pavement.

“and you’re still a fucking bitch,” wooyoung bites, literally, teeth grazing against the spot on san’s neck that he knows makes him crumble. “looking all pretty in the rain like that, the hell do you think you’re doing? i told you to stay inside.” 

“the rain was pretty,” he whines, hitting wooyoung’s chest. “besides, it’s not my fault that i look pretty, ‘s your fault for thinkin’ it.”

“whatever,” wooyoung rolls his eyes, standing up from his position above san, yanking the older up with him. “you’re not pretty to anyone except me,” he states, “it’s not my fault for thinking it because i’m the only one who does.” 

san wraps his arms around wooyoung’s waist. “i know. i was prettier before.”

“yeah, but you’re still pretty to me now. even with all your bruises and scars…” san’s mind runs dizzy from the backhanded compliment. he loves it, a humiliating reminder that his wooyoungie still thinks he’s pretty, and oh... he’s never said that before. he hates it all the same.

san knows he’s not pretty anymore.

he’s known since he looked at himself in the mirror two years ago after his overdose; he’s known since he looked in the mirror and sunken cheeks and baggy eyes looked back at him. he’s known since XL turned into L turned into S turned into baggy shirts to hide how sickly thin he was. he’s known since he lifted his baggy shirts and stared back at his pronounced rib cage. he’s known since the person looking back at him was no longer a golden tan but instead a sickly pale green. he’s known since his nose was no longer a pretty dainty button, cartilage pierced and thinning. he’s known since even the tightest sweatpants are loose around his waist. he’s known. but when he’s being held, such a pretty, dainty, cute little prince, he can’t help but to love the feeling of his vulnerability. he hates it all the same. 

“you’re mean, you know that, wuwu?” he takes in a shuddering breath, resting his head on wooyoung’s t-shirt clad, soaked chest.

wooyoung’s grip tightens, before it releases again. “i know, sannie.”

“you hurt me all the time,” he whines.

“i know, sannie.”

“you made me do this. you made me this way, and i can't go back now. i have no one now. you wanted me to be like that. it hurts wuwu.”

“i know, sannie.”

“i wanna break up with you, wooyoung-ah. we aren’t good together anymore. eomma was always right.”

“i know, sannie.”

“why did you do it then?” he all but whimpers, a sound that wooyoung hadn’t the pleasure of hearing very often, and wooyoung’s cold, dark, heart skips a beat in his chest. it hurts, because he doesn’t have an answer. not a single excuse. “why did you hurt me like this?”

“i don’t know, sannie.” there’s wet on wooyoung's face, and he can’t tell if it's his tears or the rain. he doesn’t want to think about it. 

they’re quiet, wooyoung holding the crumbling mountain that is san in his arms gently, rocking back and forth to the music playing in their heads and the rain hitting the pavement. 

\--

wooyoung was pissed. san was used to wooyoung and his erratic behavior most times, but he would never get used to wooyoung being physical with him, and especially not during his highs. wooyoung could become fucking invincible if he got high enough, and that’s a statement san swears upon.

especially when he’s getting dragged across a dirty motel room by his hair and getting pistol whipped.

“young-ah,” san groans, spitting blood on the carpet, “why don’t you just fucking kill me?”

wooyoung stops. “what?”

“i said,” san slurs, “why don’t you just fucking kill me?” he guides the barrel of the gun in wooyoung’s hand into his mouth, wrapping his lips around it and looking up at him with teary eyes, wooyoung’s piercing gaze looking right through him.

“don’t be so fucking dramatic, san,” wooyoung mumbles, pressing the barrel of the gun further into san’s mouth until he’s gagging around it. “you fucked up this time, you really did.”

truly, san had fucked up this time, something not even the most kind person could give him leniency for.

san had never been one to steal, san had never been one to cheat, and lie, and manipulate, but when he hadn’t been allowed drugs until he acquired more for wooyoung himself, he took desperate measures.

really, it was more of a threat from wooyoung, but he hadn’t the energy to argue, so when the younger parked in front of a suggestively named neon red sign, he wiped his tear streaked face, ducked out of the car, and disappeared into the building.

the problem wasn’t san resorting to stripping for money and drugs, god no, he’d actually ended up liking his job much more than he thought he would— the problem, in question, happened to be one of the pretty escort kitten’s clients, who goes by the name of park seokmin.

san was pretty on stage; if he swayed his hips and arched his back just right, onlookers would disregard just how tired and broken he really looked to take him to the back room and stuff the sides of his skimpy shorts with bills. park seokmin just happened to be one of his regulars.

as well as wooyoung’s rival dealer.

“kitten,” he smirked, eyeing san carefully.

“park seokmin,” san hummed, hopping down from the edge of the stage he was stationed at. “what can i do for you?”

“the usual,” he stated, trailing a finger down san’s exposed chest. san shudders.

  
san had “worked” with park seokmin a multitude of times, and wooyoung knew about it. in fact, wooyoung was happy about it, proud that his boyfriend was able to get drugs from his rivals just by being a good dancer. but sometimes there were things that wooyoung didn’t know about seokmin and san’s partnership.

like the fact that san wasn’t only a good dancer. he was a good manipulator when he wanted to be. he had pocketed drugs from seokmin a handful of times without the older man noticing. seokmin always tried to play san, so he only thought fair he pretended that seokmin had, indeed, tricked him.

“but…” san pressed, raising his eyebrow.

“but i have some really good shit, so you have to do really good for me this time sweetheart. ‘s the most uncut snow i’ve got...or,” he whispered in sans’ ear. “could give you something new, if you’re desperate enough for it?”

“o-okay,” san blushed, jumping when he felt seokmin’s hand gripping him.

and so, san fucked up.

of course he was desperate, so maybe he slipped his hand in seokmin’s back pocket while he was grinding down on him, eased the coke bag into his leather strappy gloves, and begged pretty on his knees with his tongue out and those fucking starry eyes gleaming and covered in prismatic silver flecks for the so called new drug.

“look at you,” seokmin smirked, running his hands through san’s fluffy hair, now dyed a dark brown with a little sliver of white in the front. wooyoung called him a little pie chart. not the point, san reminded himself. “such a good boy for me.”

“don’t call me that,” san snapped, cursing himself immediately after. “fuck, ‘m sorry, i didn’t mean that. yeah, yeah. ‘m good for you. i’m… i’m a good boy for you,” he swallowed down his pride and if he flinched when seokmin raised his hand to trace sans lip, the older didn’t mention it.

“you’re alright, kitty,” he whispered, pressing his thumb into the dip of sans tongue, holding it between his fingers as drool pooled out from the corners of san’s mouth.

he dangled the blade with the lethal substance in front of san’s eyes, watching how they changed in contrast with the colors pulsating around them. “you know that feeling when you cum so hard that you go fucking stupid?”

san nodded, face burning from humiliation. “uh huh.”

“this’ll do that to you times ten.”

so san wraps his lips around the blade, drags his teeth across the cool metal, and the drug melts.

 _san does too._ he melts into the floor, _and he’s so fucking happy, he could stay like this forever. he doesn’t even feel his glove getting ripped off, or the coke being swiped away, or the voice in the room telling a certain someone to come get their bitch. he doesn’t feel anything, nor does he care, because he’s in fucking utopia. he sees wooyoung._

_his legs are jello, and they melt into the floor as wooyoung drags him into his car. so, san was in trouble, what did he care. he didn't. the gun wooyoung holds is pressed into his side. he doesn't care. he sees wooyoung, but the only person in his mind's paradise is hongjoong. san doesn't care. san never wants to come down from this high._


	3. gods and monsters (triggered)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hongjoong fixes san, but not enough to make up for all the troubles in his past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: MURDER, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH(S),MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, DRUG USE, VIOLENCE, MILDLY DUBIOUS CONSENT, WEAPONS, MANIPUATION, NON SEXUAL BEGGING/PLEADING, THREATS, SEMI-GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF SUICIDE, IMPROPER GUNPLAY ETIQUETTE, IMPROPER KNIFEPLAY ETIQUETTE, THIS IS THE CHAPTER THAT PULLS OUT THE BIG GUNS, SO PLEASE PLEASE HEED THESE TRIGGER WARNINGS AND TAGS VERY MUCH SO IN THIS CHAPTER. please read with caution, i love you all very much.
> 
> if you would like to stay up to date with my works, please follow me on twt (18+ pls) @HONGCUNT, its a good time i promise ! without further ado, enjoy the final chapter of this heart wrenching fic. 
> 
> with love, kodie.

san was never one to start drama-- he hated it; which is why whenever he used to pickpocket park seokmin, he would do so with as much precision and caution as he could. san doesn’t know how seokmin had found out, perhaps he wasn’t as sneaky as he thought he was, but he swears his hands were always quick and nimble, albeit just the slightest bit shaky.

not that it matters now, not when wooyoung is positively screaming in san’s face, spit flying as blow upon blow is delivered across his face. he doesn’t have time to think about how he’d gotten caught; he doesn’t even have time to register the gun that wooyoung is pointing at his forehead.

“i ought to end your life right now, doing such a stupid fucking thing like that… i told you not to get caught, i told you to be careful and this is what you do? get desperate for another drug? i had to fucking drag you out of that bar looking like i did something to you meanwhile you’re just in your fucking utopia or whatever the hell you called it. oh, oh, you kept fucking mentioning hongjoong too. where was i, huh? what, i don’t make you happy?” 

san is silent, the bags under his eyes are darker than they’ve ever been as he whispers an exhausted “no.”

the worst sting he’s ever experienced explodes across his cheekbone, and he thinks his jaw might even be broken. “say it again,  _ sannie _ , i wanna hear you say it louder. say it like you’re anything more than just my stupid useless fucking pet. i dare you.”

wooyoung presses the gun under san’s chin and san lets him raise his head so their gazes meet. “say it.”

san sighs, looks him in the eye, and says “no. you don’t make me happy anymore, wooyoung. what ever happened to you? what happened? don’t you remember the night i came home. the night that i got hurt… the night you fucking held me in your arms and we laughed and everything felt like old times. i’m not happy anymore, wooyoung. i miss my wuwu. and i don’t mean the stupid fucking nickname either. 

“you think you’re slick. you think that telling me you just hate the nickname will make me believe it. you don’t hate the  _ nickname _ , you hate the fucking  _ memories _ it gives you. isn’t that it,  _ wuwu _ ? because you’ve  _ never _ stopped calling me sannie. you want me to think about our stupid pointless memories but you can’t even think about them yourself. you cant think about how you ruined me, wuwu? you can’t think of how sannie’s poor fucking  _ mother— _ ”

“shut the fuck up,” wooyoung seethes, pressing the barrel of the gun into sans chin even harder.

“i’ll talk until you kill me, wooyoung,” san whispers, resting his hand on the wrist holding the firearm.

“...what?” wooyoung’s hand falters, san can feel how the pressure on his chin gets lighter.

san grabs the base of the gun, wooyoung’s hand, and leads the barrel into his mouth. “kill me,” he mumbles around the gun. “i just wanna fucking die.” he squeaks out.

“now why the fuck would i do that,” wooyoung huffs, yanking san off of the weapon’s barrel by his hair. “you think i'd risk going to prison for life just because i killed you? _you_? fucking pathetic. look at you. one minute you’re begging me to kill you, the next you’re threatening to leave, but you _always_ fucking come back, jesus christ, san-ah,” wooyoung laughs, throws his head back and laughs like its the funniest story he’s ever told anyone, and his chest rumbles. “like fuck, you must love the hell i put you through to keep staying with me? or is it that you love me? do you _love_ me, sannie? do you wanna be _romantic_ with me? do you wanna _make_ _love_ , pretty boy?”

“stop it,” san whispers, resting his head against wooyoung’s thigh in a desperate plea, “please stop.”

wooyoung doesn’t stop. instead, he pushes san back onto the floor and laughs at the thud it makes. “if you’re gonna leave, then leave.” he snarls, throwing the contents of sans luggage— two shirts, some jeans, and a pair of old shoes for after his stripping escapades— on him.

and so san finally decides to leave. for good, this time.  _ for good.  _

-

“you did so good, san-ah,” hongjoong whispers, carding his hand through san’s hair as he rides him slowly. “did so good, leaving him, i’m so proud. you gonna let me take care of it? don’t worry, sweetheart. you’ll be alright.” he whispers against his forehead. “hongjoong-hyung will take care of it. promise.”

san has never felt as much compassion in his life as he does when he’s with hongjoong. he knows better than to let himself comfortable around this man— this daring, dark rooted, emotionally distant mess of a man. this compassionate, chaotic, criminal of a man. but he can’t help it.

not when the bath water he’s submerged in is warm and soapy and  _ oh so inviting,  _ not when the man above him is whispering words into his ear that he could only dream of wooyoung ever uttering. not when hongjoong is riding him so slow and careful, dragging his fingers down sans chest and stomach. not when he’s being fed food that he can really stomach instead of some cheap leftover warm mcdonald’s french fries that can’t even be revived by an oven. not when hongjoong is kissing away the drips of fruit juice that run down his chin with not an ounce of anger or hatred or disgust on his face.

san knows hongjoong isn’t much better than wooyoung, but it sure feels like it. he likes to forget about all the people hongjoong and his drugs may have enabled, all the other san’s hongjoong has destroyed in his lifetime, all the other  _ wooyoung’s  _ he’s  _ created. _

“it’s not like you’re gonna change his mind about anything, hyung, you’d have to kill him first,” san jokes. 

hongjoong doesn’t laugh, neither does san.

“yeah,” is all hongjoong says, resting his head against san’s chest. “i’m sorry, san. i’m so sorry.”

san doesn’t need to know what hongjoong is apologizing for.  _ everything. _

“i know, it’s okay. it’s okay.” 

_ it’s not okay. it will never be okay. _

san and hongjoong stay connected to one another until the bath water is less than tepid, tracing burn marks over regretful ink, blemishes that wail  _ biohazard waste here,  _ and freckles that would take an eternity and then some to count. hongjoong places a kiss aotp san’s matted wet hair.

“you deserve someone better, san. i am not an upgrade. i want you out of this. you and hwa both.”

san already knows.

“hongjoong, you’re all i have. ever since eomma…” san trails off, burying his face in the crook of hongjoong’s neck. “i couldn’t even go to the funeral, hong. isn’t that fucked up? please. i need you. i need you to stop, and i need you and seonghwa and i just-” san _breaks._ for the first time since he’d met wooyoung, he breaks as it all hits him just how far gone he is, just how _fucking_ _sick and tired_ he is of it all.

he tells hongjoong more than he’s ever told him before; the pills, the heroin, the cocaine, the fentanyl, seokmin, the beatings, the gaslighting. he tells hongjoong about the time wooyoung drove him to a bridge and threatened to throw him over it, how he had to walk home without his phone because it was thrown in the water from the struggle, how he’d yet again gotten violated on the walk home by some few lonely old men looking for fun, how wooyoung did the same fucking thing he always did when san got upset enough to try to leave. showering him with kisses and presents and soft words and everything is okay for a week until san brings it up and gets beat down all over again. he spills his guts to hongjoong, even as he’s carried to their bed, all gangly limbs and choked sobs. even when he’s put in a warm bathrobe and held by seonghwa, even when he’s laying in bed sandwiched in between two of the only people in his life and their soft little baby kitten, mars.

he breaks until he stops talking, and when hongjoong looks down, san is asleep.

san has nightmares that night. and the next night. and the next. they never stop.

seonghwa holds him through them every time, grips him when his arms go flying, holds him down while he shakes, runs his hand through his hair as he vomits every ounce of toxicity from his guts and his bloodstream, calls hongjoong on the days they’re not watching closely and somehow san will end up on the floor of the bathroom with powder on his nose, convulsing. narcan always helps. san has almost died nearly twice as many times as he thought he was  _ alive and living. _

when he wakes up in hongjoong’s bed after two weeks of jongho’s insistent claims that most people don't make it out alive in overdose situations like these, san vows to never let drugs take his life. if he was going to die ever, it would be in his own hands.

-

withdrawal is a bitch.

san will never forget the feeling of maggots crawling under his skin, stealing the warmth from his body as they feast on his blood, thriving while he nods off and vomits and shivers and soaks through his clothing every hour. he will never forget the feeling of too much and not enough against his skin, the dim of the lights that lull him to a near sleep— only for a phantom shout to bring his heart back to life tenfold, hurt more than the full brightness that kept him awake with rolling eyes and the feeling of impending doom as he questioned if he was even real anymore. san did not want to relapse with drugs, no, he wanted to die.

he often caught himself during the first month of intense detox fantasizing about taking his own life. those thoughts only scared him more. san was losing weight faster than any drug ever made him. he was dehydrated, morbidly underweight, and oh so tired, yet he could never sleep.

the first time he got food and water down without vomiting, he cried so hard that he heaved it up anyway. but that was not his withdrawal, it was his own doing. he ate his favorite meal that night, and the full feeling of his stomach was so comfortable it was almost unsettling.

the next couple of months pass in a blur for san, him having quit his job at the strip and getting into actual therapy, courtesy of hongjoong. it’s risky, especially considering hongjoong’s past, but they pull it off. san stays at clearview for a month and a half, goes through the withdrawal, and in a strange turn of events meets most of wooyoung’s old friends there at the same time. it’s terrifying, the sight of them chills san to the bone, gives him memories of being high and desperate and giving himself up for years on end. but in the end, they become closer than anyone san knows. it is  _ hard.  _

san’s trust issues run deep. he sometimes accuses them of things, sometimes glares at them and doesn't speak to them for hours, days, even. the days where his withdrawals are bad he will beg on his knees like he used to, and instead of being used, he is held. he is held and rocked and shushed through the shakes, the aches, the pain, the hurt. san wishes he could say he’s used to not being used. when san is used, he feels right. when san isn’t being used he feels used.

yunho is nice, a ray of sunshine when he’s clean, the light at the end of the tunnel, the one who has a chance at life, wants to settle down with someone (mingi, san can see it in the way they look at each other), get a dog, adopt some kids, get a well paying job.

mingi wants the same. the longer san gets to know mingi, he realizes just how caught up in the wrong crowd the gentle giant was. mingi is a genius, despite his naivety and his general positive outlook on life, despite the shit it has gotten him into. when san watches mingi and yunho it feels like an intimacy he could only dream of. the kind of intimacy where words aren’t needed. an example of how lives  _ can  _ change after tragedy strikes.

yeosang is interesting to say the least, and has definitely been part of the reason san doesn’t feel like ripping his hair out of his scalp in this damn high strung facility. he’s absolutely hilarious, with no shame and a humor that even makes the staff shake their heads. he thanks jogho for getting him here to begin with, says that jongho talked him into it after weeks of him declining. after one harrowing experience where jongho walked in on him overdosing, he finally agreed.

san is healthy, and strong, and glowing and  _ happy _ . san still has dark circles under his eyes and has nightmares about wooyoung.  _ but he is happy. he is happy. _

when san, mingi, yunho, and yeosang finish rehab successfully, they exchange numbers and text each other frequently. mingi and yunho start dating, yeosang rooms with jongho and starts schooling online, and san goes back to the man who started it all, and his loving boyfriend seonghwa. san has everything that wooyoung didn’t, and then did, and then didn’t again. it makes san’s heart bloom with  _ happiness. _

san is three months clean when his phone rings. he’s sitting on the couch, snuggled between hongjoong and seonghwa and the vibrations shock his delirious mind awake. of course, he answers it out of habit, used to calls and updates from yunho, mingi, and sometimes even jongho. yeosang tends to stick to texts, so san opts him out immediately. although, he supposes it may have been his job calling to bitch at him for not showing up after two days— (capitalism over humanity, san balks,) but instead of hearing the warm voices of his friends, he hears a bone chilling whisper from the man he had been trying so hard to forget, and he says one word before hanging up.  _ bridge. _

san already knows.

and so, he looks at hongjoong, watches him pace around the room seething and cursing, and tells him to come along. hongjoong wouldn’t have let him go alone to begin with.

the drive to the bridge is heavy and unsettling as the street lights illuminate hongjoong’s face every half second, his eyes locked on the road ahead, jaw tight and set. san eyes the hidden inside of hongjoong’s coat, knowing that a gun resides there, safety lock off. he swears hongjoong would accidentally kill himself like that one of these days,  _ fucking stubborn bastard _ . san sighs, gripping hongjoong’s thigh as he drives inconspicuously.

“you’re gonna kill him, aren’t you, hyung?”

hongjoong does not reply, and that is when san knows; he does not need an answer.

when they drive up to the opposite side of the bridge, wooyoung is indeed there, looking smug as always until he sees hongjoong. his smirk drops, and san can see the way he shivers under his sweater.

“wooyoung-ah, why so fearful?” hongjoong asks, tilted head feigning confusion. “it's just me… i thought we were friends?”

wooyoung tenses when hongjoong takes a step forward. “hey, hey, hey, calm down, i’m not gonna kill you or anything,” hongjoong laughs bitterly, “just wanted to know why you’re trying to worm your way back into san’s life again.”

san steps closer to hongjoong, gripping his arm like a vice and glaring at wooyoung. the thing about being here, witnessing this confrontation that’s almost definitely going to end in a murder one way or another, is that it’s going to kill san even more. it is going to ruin all the progress san has tried to make in his life because he has to kill his  _ best friend.  _ san may not have been wooyoung’s best friend like he’d thought, all those years ago, but wooyoung was  _ san’s best friend. _

“that’s not- that’s not what i was trying to do, hyung, i just came to see how he was doing. i came to apologize-”

“no, you came to try to convince him that you weren’t in your right mind, you were so stupid and you just weren’t thinking. you don’t apologize to anybody, ever. i knew you before san ever did, don’t pin me a fool or else maybe i will take your life.” hongjoong spits, a fire in his eyes that even worries san himself.

“hyung,” san whispers under his breath, and hongjoong is quick to grip his wrist gently.

“san. i don’t trust him and after all he did to you… after all  _ i  _ did for you. what would you want to hear him for, if not to hurt you even more. don’t listen to him. it's what he wants. if he really wants to talk to you, i’ll make him beg for it.” hongjoong smirks.

san tenses. he knows what's coming, he knows that he should be more prepared, he knows that when hongjoong didn’t laugh in the sweaty, damp, tepid sanctuary of his arms that night, he meant it, and when he didn't answer in the car on the drive there, he meant it.

_ wooyoung was going to die and hongjoong was going to make sure of it. _

it just may have come sooner than expected for them both. “hyung,” san repeats. “let me talk to him. let me talk to him first.”

“wooyoung-ssi,” hongjoong starts, narrowing his eyes, striding closer to wooyoung with every step. “would you get on your knees for san? would you  _ beg  _ for san, would you plead for your life to show san how sorry you are?”

“san… san-ah, you’re not gonna let him do this are you? sannie… sannie please tell me this is a joke, you’re not gonna make me beg for you right? for my life, right?” wooyoung is shaking, back pressed against the concrete rails of the bridge, and he knows before it even starts, that it’s  _ over. _

“beg,” san says, glaring. “you know what? you don’t deserve to hear about the things you did to me. but i’ll tell you anyway, because it hurt, woo. it  _ hurt.  _ and you only realize it now after all your friends left you to get clean with me. yeah, that’s right, young-ah. i’ve been getting  _ clean  _ away from you. hongjoong and seonghwa too! they’re barely even doing shipments anymore. the worst thing either of them do at this point is maybe sell some fucking weed, rarely. i’ve been getting better, and now you want me back. and i  _ hate you.  _ i hate you so much that it hurts in my chest and my neck and my head and my body fucking screams every night because of you. i hate you so much that i  _ love  _ you, and i want it to go away. i want you to go away.  _ you were supposed to be my best friend. and now you have to die because you fucked up.” _

and wooyoung begs. he pleads, cries, apologizes, he does everything he can think of to avoid the inevitable death that invites him with open arms and an evil smirk.

hongjoong has the gun pointed to wooyoung's head as san looks away. 

“believe it or not, young-ah, you have a choice. you either kill yourself or i kill you,” hongjoong smiles. in times like these, san wonders how the man can look so sane in the privacy of their own home when he swears he can see the demons cackling in his eyes. “put the gun to your head wooyoung, and you can choose your death. the one thing you can do to help everyone else's life.”

san and hongjoong watch with bleary eyes as wooyoung grabs his gun and places it under his chin in surrender.

a gunshot sounds.

-

san, hongjoong, and seonghwa lay bare, sandwiched together in the comfort of their freshly made bed, soft kisses being passed around and praise being whispered in each other's ears after a long day of work for each of them. seonghwa shines like the stars, and hongjoong like the sun, but san glows like the moon, brightness in the dark that is often overlooked. they made it out of the hell that they were trapped in for so long.

if only san’s mind would catch onto that.

wooyoung is no longer alive to taunt him, to hurt him, but he visits him in his dreams a lot. they’re only sometimes nightmares now. most of them are good; memories of before money and drugs affected him. before he was dealing with these strange gods and monsters inside of his mind that had triggered him to be so malicious. back when they would cuddle and watch disney shows and laugh at silly jokes only they knew. somehow, they aren’t nightmares, but they hurt just as bad.

it’s been three years since wooyoung died, three years since he turned his back as to not see who did what. hongjoong says wooyoung pulled the trigger first. san chooses to believe him. the truth is, san doesn’t care, because right now, he has who he needs. he has two loving boyfriends who have changed for the better, he has four very special friends that he wouldn’t change for the world; yunho, yeosang, mingi, and jongho who has indeed gone on to earn his nursing degree, and become a nicu advisor for babies who were born addicted to drugs. in a way, almost everyone’s life got better.

sometimes, san felt like he only got worse.

sure, he was healthy, smart, and better off, but the days of his past still continue to haunt him. he continues to struggle with sleep, he continues to have days where he craves, he continues to feel like he’s being treated delicately, and it is  _ hard. san is tired of pretending that he is happy. _

san is not  _ happy. _ the scars in the creases of his elbow and the dots along his arms are enough to show that. the thoughts that prance around menacingly in his mind are enough to show that. the way he jumps when he hears hongjoong or seonghwa talking around him and maybe their voices are raised more than normal (never out of anger towards him or each other, they made that especially clear during the beginning of their relationship), and everything is just so scary now.

san stays in bed with them both, just a little longer, until they get up and make breakfast begrudgingly, soft pecks and reassuring words thrown san’s direction until the room is empty of warm heartbeats, excluding his own.

san grabs a pen and a piece of paper, trudges to the bathroom, sits on the floor, and writes.

_ to my loves, i am sorry, but i cannot live any longer this way. it is of no fault to either of you, but i can’t go on. please do not look in the bathroom, just call 911. i love you both so much. -your (crumbling) mountain _

san walks back to the bedroom, places the note on the bed, and walks to the shower, determined.

the blades on the razors sting unlike anything san has ever felt, but the cold water of the shower makes it worse. his head is pounding, he is cold and shaky, but he’s starting to feel oh so tired, dozing off as the blood pours from his wrists. as he succumbs to his injuries, he hears pounding at the locked door.

and then he is free.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [to santa claus and little sisters](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882962) by [remus (RHODONlTE)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RHODONlTE/pseuds/remus)




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